Some things never change
The Hogwarts Express rattled down the tracks, and Harry leaned against the window, watching the scenery whiz by. Excitement bubbled within him as he thought of returning to the castle for another year with his friends. When the train finally came to a stop, he stepped out onto the platform, where the familiar sights and sounds of Hogwarts greeted him. Ron and Hermione were already waiting for him, their expressions brightening at the sight of him. “There you are, mate!” Ron exclaimed, clapping Harry on the back with enough force to almost knock him over. “We were starting to think you’d gotten lost.”
Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled, nudging Ron playfully. “As if anyone could get lost between the Great Hall and the train station, Ron.”
“Yeah, well, you know Harry,” Ron replied, casting Harry a conspiratorial glance. “He could trip over his own shoelaces and end up in a different dimension.”
Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “I managed just fine, thank you very much.”
As they made their way toward the carriages, Hermione fell into step beside Harry. “How are you really feeling about this year, Harry?” she asked, her tone serious yet caring.
“I’m okay,” he said, glancing at Ron, who was ahead, chatting animatedly. “Just ready to get back into a routine. It’ll be different, but I think it’ll be good.”
Hermione nodded, her eyes searching his face. “If anyone bothers you, you know Ron and I will be right there. No one’s going to mess with you this year.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got your back too,” Ron chimed in, turning to join the conversation. “Especially those Slytherins. I’m keeping a close eye on Malfoy.”
Harry felt a warmth spread in his chest. “Thanks, guys. Though I doubt Malfoy would want to stir any trouble this year. Slytherins are under strict guidelines by the ministry after all.” He said trying not to sound too affected by it.
It didn’t work.
The Great Hall was adorned with floating candles and enchanted pumpkins, their glow illuminating the faces of students eager for the feast. Harry, Ron, and Hermione settled into their seats at the Gryffindor table, laughter and chatter echoing around them. As the feast began, Harry dug into his food, but he sensed Ron and Hermione watching him closely.
“Seriously, Harry,” Ron said between bites, “you need to eat more. You’re looking a bit… well, like you’ve been through a war.”
Harry snorted at that. Yeah, and that made both his best friends even more worried. “I’ve been through a war, Ron,” Harry replied, raising an eyebrow but unable to suppress a smile. “I think I can manage a plate of mashed potatoes.”
Hermione chimed in; her voice firm yet affectionate. “He’s right, Ron. Harry’s not going to starve himself, and besides, it’s his last year. We should enjoy it.”
“Exactly! Last year! We should be having fun, not worrying about calories,” Ron added, shoving another piece of roast chicken into his mouth.
Harry chuckled, grateful for their concern. “I promise, I’m fine. Just trying to take it all in.”
Hermione exchanged a look with Ron, a mixture of pride and protectiveness evident in her eyes. “Just remember, we’re in this together. You don’t have to carry everything on your shoulders.”
“Yeah, we’ve got your back, mate,” Ron said, giving Harry a reassuring nod. “No one’s getting past us this year.”
Harry had no words that could explain his love for these two.
Later on, the night of their first day back at Hogwarts, The Gryffindor boys’ dormitory was quiet except for the soft sounds of breathing and the occasional rustle of sheets. Harry lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the events of the day in his mind. He looked slightly better than he did during the war— Draco Malfoy looked as pale as ever but Harry could swear, he wasn’t looking as much of ghost as he did during their last encounters.
Unfortunately for Harry, Ron seemed to sense his distress, Ron shifted in his bed, finally breaking the silence. “You okay, Harry?”
“Yeah,” Harry said softly, turning his head to face Ron. “Just… thinking.”
“That’s exactly what you need to stop doing so much, mate,” Ron advised, his tone half-serious. “It’ll drive you mad. Remember what Hermione always says about worrying?”
“Yeah, I know. But it’s just hard sometimes,” Harry admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
His two best friends dating each other was sort of working in favor of the things- mostly because well Ron’s inner Hermoine seemed to channelize. “You don’t have to deal with everything alone, Harry. Mione and I are right here. If anything’s bothering you, just say it. You know I didn’t build this muscle for nothing mate I’ll be there to break noses when there’s a need to.”
Harry couldn’t help but laugh softly at his words and protectiveness. “Off course you are. Thanks, Ron. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Later after that, Ron and Neville fell into the slumber of sleep after talking for some time, Dean and Seamus now shared a separate room with each other, some changes with roommates of 8th years were made something about ‘privacy’. His roommates were both asleep but Harry couldn’t. Sleep was nowhere in otherwise tired eyes. When was the last time he had slept properly anyways?
The moon hung high outside the Gryffindor Tower, casting pale beams of light through the window, illuminating the faintly darkened room. The familiar creak of the old wooden bedframe echoed as Harry tossed and turned, tangled in his sheets, his brow furrowed with the weight of unrelenting thoughts. Sleep had become a distant memory, a luxury he felt he could no longer afford.
Harry lay there, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the stone above him as if they held the answers to his turmoil. Each crack felt like a reminder of the battles fought and the lives lost—Sirius, Remus, Tonks. Faces of friends and allies flashed through his mind, their laughter mingled with the echoes of their final moments. He felt the familiar grip of guilt squeezing his chest, a vice he couldn't shake off. Why was he still alive when so many weren’t?
The golden glow of magic flickered beneath his skin, an unsettling pulse that seemed to resonate with his emotions. It has been getting more and more powerful and restless— his magic. He felt it surge and recede, like waves crashing against a rocky shore. It wasn’t just his magic; it was his very essence responding to his fractured psyche, reminding him that he was still a part of this world. But he didn’t want to be a part of it, not when the memories of war clung to him like a shadow. He shifted again, trying to find a comfortable position, but sleep eluded him. Each time he closed his eyes, the nightmares came creeping back—visions of the Forbidden Forest, the whispers of the past, and the cold, unyielding presence of Voldemort looming over him, taunting him. He could feel the heat of the Dark Lord’s rage, the finality of his demise—a release that had felt more like a beginning than an end.
Harry’s thoughts spiralled deeper into darkness. What did it mean to be normal? His normal was waiting when their new DADA professor would turn out to be one with some interesting reason to want to kill him. He longed for the mundane—an ordinary life filled with laughter and warmth—but, he didn’t even know what that was, how could he ever return to that when every corner of his mind was haunted by the ghosts of his past? The burden of being “The Boy Who Lived” had shifted into something heavier, an identity he struggled to reconcile with the person he wanted to be.
Why can’t I just be happy?
He felt like a failure, his friends had been so kind and bearing with him and oddly strict in digging it in his head that he wasn’t a burden on them, and he still couldn’t be happy. He felt like he was not worth their efforts.
He sat up abruptly, running a hand through his unruly hair, frustration boiling within him. He should be celebrating; he should be relishing in the victory that had come at such a steep cost. Instead, he felt like a ghost wandering through a world that had moved on without him.
With a resigned sigh, Harry swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his feet touching the cool stone floor. He needed to escape, to breathe outside of his own thoughts, if only for a moment. He crept quietly through the dormitory, careful not to wake Ron or Neville, who were deep in slumber, blissfully unaware of the tempest raging within him.
He tiptoed down the staircase, the portraits snoring softly, their frames swaying gently. The common room was dimly lit, a flickering fire casting shadows that danced along the walls. Harry settled into a worn armchair, staring into the flames as they crackled and popped, each sound a reminder of the warmth he craved yet couldn’t fully accept.
He couldn’t shake the feeling of being on guard, as if danger was lurking just beyond the horizon. Even in the safety of Hogwarts, the walls felt like they were closing in on him. How could he relax when he didn’t know if the nightmares would ever stop?
With a weary sigh, he closed his eyes, willing the glow of his magic to dim, wishing it would ease just enough to let him rest. But instead, it pulsed within him, a constant reminder that he was still alive, still fighting—even if it was against himself.
A wave of anger surged through him. Why did he have to fight?
As he sat there, lost in his thoughts, a tear slipped down his cheek, a release for the bottled emotions he had kept hidden for far too long. He felt trapped in a world that expected him to be a hero when all he wanted was to be free.
In that moment, Harry realized he had a choice to make. He could either let the weight of survivor’s guilt crush him, or he could begin to forge a path toward healing, however long that journey might take. The decision terrified him, but as the golden glow within him pulsed gently, he felt a flicker of hope—perhaps, just perhaps, he could find his way back to the light.
The sun broke over the horizon, casting a golden glow across the misty grounds of Hogwarts. The castle, still bearing scars from the battle that had raged just months before, stood resilient against the backdrop of a clear blue sky. The jagged remnants of shattered towers served as a stark reminder of the sacrifices made, but the surrounding nature was beginning to reclaim its serenity.
Students, their chatter echoing off the ancient stone walls, flowed into the Great Hall, where long tables were set for breakfast. A few first-years glanced around wide-eyed, taking in the magical floating candles and enchanted ceiling that mirrored the weather outside. The atmosphere was charged with an electric mix of excitement and apprehension, especially among the returning students, many of whom had only just begun to process the events of the past year.
Harry sat at the long Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, the usual bustling chatter around him only barely registering. He stared at the plate in front of him, pushing a bit of scrambled egg around aimlessly. It wasn’t that he wasn’t hungry, but rather, the exhaustion ran deeper than that. This, he thought, is what the rest of his life might look like: half-tired, half-content, somewhere between the war and whatever this new world was trying to be.
Across from him, Ron and Hermione were in their own little world, murmuring to each other and occasionally laughing at some shared inside joke. He watched them for a moment, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. Despite everything—despite the suffocating protectiveness they were trying to bury him under—he couldn’t begrudge them their happiness. After all, this was what they had fought for, what they all had. For Ron and Hermione, the war had stolen their early years, but now… now they had a chance to be what they always should have been, free from the weight of saving the world. Harry could see it in the way they looked at each other, the way Ron’s hand brushed Hermione’s without hesitation.
Yeah, it would have been nice if they hadn’t suddenly decided Harry was their long-lost child and not their best friend for 8 years. They were getting too protective over him as if he was some 5-year-old child, okay they were actually borderline overprotective, they were overbearing, no doubt. Hermione fussing like some sort of maternal hawk, Ron looming in the background with that odd mixture of worry and poorly concealed relief. They hovered over him like something fragile, breakable. He should’ve been irritated.
Maybe part of him was. But… well, he couldn’t really bring himself to care. Not when he looked at them and saw what they had now—what they finally had. He loved them. Deep down, he knew they all loved each other in ways words couldn’t fully express. That had to be enough.
"Harry," Hermione's voice broke through his thoughts. She was looking at him with that familiar frown, concern etched into every line of her face. "You look tired. Are you sure you’re, okay?"
"I'm fine," he mumbled, hoping to derail the inevitable conversation about his health. "Just… long night."
Neither of them looked convinced as Hermoine looked at Ron as if she was demanding explanation, which she was. Ron stuttered for a second in panic before he brought himself to answer the long question in his girlfriend’s silent glare. “I uh… Harry has been restless, obviously we all talked ourselves to sleep but I guess…” Hermoine gave him a disapproving look and he shut up then she turned to Harry.
“How has your magic been? It was acting up, wasn’t it?” She asked instead.
Harry felt anxious all of a sudden, he had suddenly become really good at lying during their 5th year but now that the war is over lying to them made him feel worse. “I have it under contro—” and the golden spark flicked the fork he had in his hand making the clinking sound echo through their table and he immediately ducked his hand under the table. Fuck anxiety.
Everyone mostly ignored it but Harry didn’t really care about everyone either, however, he did care about the look Hermoine was looking at him with. “Harry...” she said in a warning tone. Harry glanced at Ron for help who was suddenly very interested in the pumpkin juice. He couldn’t blame him, no one wants to face Hermoine when she’s mad let alone the poor guy who happens to be her boyfriend.
“Hey you guys!” Dean started saving him from the lecture he was about to receive. Harry hasn’t liked the guy more. “You heard that Slytherins are to be abolished from common school grounds?”
What utter Bullshite!
Rumours had swept through the school like wildfire during the summer. The Ministry of Magic, in a bid to restore balance and heal the rift that the war had caused, had announced a controversial decision to allow the Slytherins back for their final year. Trials were held to evaluate their actions during the war, determining who among them could return to Hogwarts. Some had been cleared of wrongdoing, while others faced penalties, yet the very presence of Slytherins was a contentious topic that left many students divided.
The Gryffindor table buzzed with conversations, Ron and Hermione animatedly discussing while Ginny occasionally chimed in, casting wary glances at the Slytherin table, which was still mostly empty. The air was thick with tension as everyone awaited the return of their former rivals.
At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy sat with an air of defiance, flanked by Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson. The trio had navigated the Ministry trials together, their fates intertwined in a complex web of loyalty and betrayal. Though cleared to return, Draco’s face was set in a stony expression, a mask to hide the turmoil beneath. He had spent months grappling with his family's legacy, the expectations of pureblood superiority, and the weight of his own choices during the war.
Though the trials had offered a glimmer of hope for reconciliation, many students at Hogwarts remained sceptical. Whispers and side glances accompanied the Slytherins as they entered the Great Hall for the first time since the war. The tension crackled like static in the air, and the Hogwarts staff watched closely, Professor McGonagall’s stern gaze ensuring that old prejudices didn’t reignite.
Harry if he was to be honest didn’t know what to think about anything right now, Most of all Draco Malfoy. During the trials Harry had felt this sense of responsibility towards Narcissa Malfoy who he basically owes his life to. He thought the least he could do was make sure her son gets to complete his school and he doesn’t end up in Azkaban. Harry actually believed Draco Malfoy to be one of the victims that he didn’t actually want to do whatever he did, after all there was no way he didn’t know it was Harry when Bellatrix asked him. He even gave Harry his wand that he had returned during the trial.
That’s what he truly believed and no one could tell him otherwise, or maybe, maybe its just Harry’s old feelings he never really got enough space on his plate to acknowledge was what made him so firmly believe that Malfoy wasn’t in the wrong.
4th year, when Harry realized he actually maybe had more feelings than animosity for the blonde. The same year that Harry thinks might have strangled and locked whatever of childhood there was in Harry potter.
“I think they’ll surprise us,” Luna Lovegood, ever the oddball, sat at the Gryffindor table with a serene smile, her dreamy demeanour unshaken by the tensions surrounding her. she said, her voice floating above the chatter, prompting a few sceptical glances but also some intrigued nods. Luna was really one of Harry’s favourite people. A freak and a freak.
As the Slytherins settled into their seats talking in hushed tone with Malfoy’s eyes wavering not like he was looking for something specific but more like he was avoiding looking at something specific, an unspoken challenge lingering in the air. Conversations hushed, eyes narrowed, and the chatter of the Great Hall quieted to a low murmur. The moment felt heavy with history, the ghosts of the past echoing through the stone halls, but also with the potential for a new beginning.
“Let’s see if they’ve really changed,” Ron muttered, eyeing Draco and his friends with a mix of wariness and curiosity.
Hermione shot him a warning glance. “We should give them a chance. Not everyone made the same choices, Ron.”
The tension persisted, simmering beneath the surface as breakfast continued. Harry sat in quiet contemplation, watching the dynamics unfold. He felt the weight of his own choices press down on him, realizing that the path to healing would be fraught with obstacles, misunderstandings, and potential for growth—if only they could find a way to bridge the divides.
As the clatter of plates and laughter gradually returned, Harry caught Draco’s gaze from across the hall. A flicker of recognition passed between them, both knowing that this year would be unlike any other—a chance to redefine old rivalries and forge unexpected alliances amidst the remnants of their shared history. It wasn’t even a complete second and both of them looked away.
Harry was starting to realize his feelings played a lot more role than he had thought.
It was just the first day and Harry thinks potions could never ever work for him.
The Potions classroom was a familiar chaos of bubbling cauldrons and the sharp scent of herbs and chemicals. The air was thick with tension as students settled into their seats, and for many, it was their first day back after the war, a bittersweet reunion with old rivals.
Harry was barely figuring out their Hogwarts return himself; Harry felt a flicker of anxiety as Professor Slughorn’s’ sharp voice cut through the noise, announcing the pairing for the day’s potion assignment. He let out a resigned sigh when he heard Professor’s next words: “Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy—partners.”
For a brief moment, Harry considered the possibility of escaping the inevitable. He didn’t want to look at Draco; he wasn’t sure he was ready for the way things had changed. The world around him felt heavier, their childhood taunts replaced with something sharper, more raw.
As Draco turned to face him, Harry forced himself to meet his gaze but quickly averted his eyes. The silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable. They began gathering their ingredients, the only sound the soft rustling of parchment and the faint bubbling of their cauldron.
Harry looked at the ingredients picking the unicorn hair because he was bored and didn’t know what to do. (well, defeater of Dark Lord how about doing your assignment?) but before he actually could pick it up Malfoy hit his palm not with much force, it didn’t hurt but it startled Harry as sparks of gold dust flickered and dissolved in the air when Malfoy hit him. Harry didn’t need to look up to see the insult that was stuck in Draco’s mouth at the display of magic.
Harry quickly withdrew his hand, Draco was surprised but Harry wasn’t angry or anything he was rather feeling a bit of nostalgic seeing Malfoy react like this to him touching the ingredients near the cauldron. Then, under his breath, Harry muttered, “Some things never change.”
Draco’s head snapped at his direction, his expression shifting from indifference to mild irritation. “What did you say, Potter?” he asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.
“Nothing,” Harry replied, trying to maintain his composure, but the memory of their years of rivalry flared to life, fuelling a something in his gut.
“Right,” Draco scoffed, leaning back in his chair with a smirk that was all too familiar. “Better be nothing Potter, but we all know when has that ever been the case.” Harry finally looked up at him and noticed something, his hair, it wasn’t stuck up gelled like he had always seen it was… still perfect but falling a little on his forehead, they were just neatly combed not stuck with charms and whatever products Draco Malfoy used. “Staring are we now Potter?” Malfoy leaned closer to him.
Harry clenched his jaw, feeling the heat of Draco’s words ignite a spark of irritation. “Like I’d ever stare at you.” Harry said trying to avoid as much as conflict possible with the Slytherins.
Draco's smirk only widened as he leaned even closer, his pale eyes gleaming with amusement. “Oh, really? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you can’t help yourself.” He arched an eyebrow, voice dripping with mockery. “What’s wrong, Potter? Is the Gryffindor Golden Boy finally starting to appreciate a finer breed?”
Harry rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Please, Malfoy. I’ve seen houseplants with more charm than you.”
Draco let out a soft chuckle, unfazed. “Like you’d know anything about plants, wouldn’t you? What with spending all that time with Longbottom. Must be rubbing off on you.” He flicked his hair back with a casual grace that only irritated Harry more.
“Better him than you," Harry shot back, resisting the urge to smirk. “At least Neville has actual personality.”
Draco’s eyes sparkled with feigned offense as he placed a hand dramatically on his chest. “You wound me, Potter. You really do. But if you want to talk about personalities, perhaps we should start with your hero complex.” His voice dropped into a teasing whisper. “Maybe that's why you’re staring at me. Looking for someone to save?”
Harry’s pulse quickened, more out of irritation than anything else. He met Draco’s gaze evenly, leaning forward just slightly. “If you needed saving, Malfoy, I’d probably just let you drown.” That’s a lie
“Touché,” Draco murmured, his smirk still in place but something else flickering in his gaze for just a moment—curiosity, perhaps. “But we both know you wouldn’t, Potter. You’re far too noble for that. Besides after your heroic testimony at the trials” Draco placed his hand on Harry’s that had been on the table. Harry could feel his heart suddenly missing a beat, his magic bustling under the skin which touched the taller boy, he had this sudden urgency to pull his hand away, so he did. Draco’s smirk just sharpened somehow. “It wouldn’t suit you to not save a Slytherin in distress.”
Harry shrugged, fighting the urge to glance away first. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just learned not to waste my energy on people who don’t deserve it.”
Draco’s lips curled into a slow grin as he straightened up. “You say that, and yet here you are—wasting your energy talking to me.” He paused, eyes glinting mischievously. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
He could feel the familiar glare at him as he briefly glanced at Hermoine who gestured him to focus on his assignment because everyone was now basically watching them, just watching them. He didn’t really care but Hermoine.
Harry gritted his teeth, refusing to rise to the bait. “If I’m talking to you, it’s because I’ve got nothing better to do.” He tried to brush him off.
Draco laughed, the sound low and rich. “Keep telling yourself that, Potter. You and I both know this—” he gestured between them, “—is far from over.”
The post-war tension had been thick at first, but now, months later, Hogwarts had settled back into some semblance of normalcy. Still, certain things remained unchanged—like the lingering rivalry between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Hermione glanced up from her book as the familiar sound of bickering drifted across the table. She sighed, nudging Ron.
“Yes Mione, Harry should focus on the assignment but c’mon he’s paired with the ferret git.”
“But seriously, are they at it again?” she muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes.
Ron glanced over his shoulder at Harry and Draco, who were leaning towards each other, engaged in their usual snarky exchange. He swallowed quickly and shrugged. “What d’you expect? It’s Harry and Malfoy. Some things never change.”
Hermione frowned, but her lips twitched with a hint of amusement. “They bicker more now than they ever did back then. You’d think after everything, they’d learn to just ignore each other.”
Ron chuckled. “Oh, come on, Hermione. This is the most normal thing to happen since the war. If Harry’s arguing with Malfoy, at least we know he’s… well, himself again.” He paused, giving her a meaningful look. “Besides, you know he gets a kick out of winding Malfoy up.”
Hermoine and Ron both knew that Harry was always quiet a person mostly unbothered with any kind of bullying or teasing, he was kind but he was also hot- headed but he also always knew when to not give the satisfaction to others by reacting the way they’d want. Malfoy however, ever since they were mere 11-year-olds, encounters with Malfoy where the most animated one would ever see Harry Potter, even if the emotion was nothing but hatred and irritation.
From across the table, Blaise and Pansy exchanged glances, noticing the same scene unfolding. Pansy sighed dramatically, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “They’re like an old married couple, aren’t they?” she remarked, resting her chin on her hand. “Always bickering, never actually doing anything about it.”
Blaise raised an eyebrow, smirking lazily. “Oh, I wouldn’t say they aren’t doing anything about it. They’ve just got a strange way of flirting.”
Pansy’s eyes widened. “Flirting? Potter and Malfoy?” She snorted with laughter, though her gaze lingered a little too long on the pair as Draco leaned in closer, clearly enjoying the argument. “I suppose that’s one way of putting it. Draco would love to hear that.”
“That he would, and please,” Blaise replied smoothly, casting a knowing look. “I’ve seen this coming for ages. You can feel the tension every time they start up. Honestly, they’re the only ones who haven’t noticed.”
Pansy gave him a sceptical look. “Or maybe they’re just reverting to habit. Post-war life’s been too dull for both of them. What else is Potter going to do without a Dark Lord to fight?”
“Annoy Draco,” Blaise quipped, glancing over his shoulder again. “Clearly, that’s his new hobby.”
As Harry and Draco’s voices grew a little louder, the nearby tables began to notice, too. Several Hufflepuffs were watching with poorly concealed grins, while a few Ravenclaws whispered amongst themselves, some intrigued, others rolling their eyes.
Dean Thomas leaned over to Seamus Finnegan, chuckling. “There they go again. I honestly wouldn’t have digested if they hadn’t started this again.”
Seamus shook his head in disbelief. “It’s like clockwork, mate. Can’t believe how quickly they went back to this. Post-war peace, and they’re still going at it.”
“Yeah,” Dean mused. “But it feels different now, isn’t it? No venom behind the words. It’s almost… like they’re having fun.”
Seamus snorted. “Fun? Malfoy and Potter, fun? You’ve gone mad. It’s about time Harry would throw a punch at him.”
Dean grinned. “Maybe. But I reckon it’s better this way.”
As Harry and Draco’s argument reached its peak, both of them finally seemed to notice the stares from the rest of the hall. Harry shifted uncomfortably, glancing around before lowering his voice. Draco, on the other hand, simply straightened up, brushing imaginary dust off his pristine robes.
“Well, Potter,” Draco drawled, his tone more measured now, though a smirk still played on his lips. “As much as I’d love to continue this thrilling conversation, I do have better things to do with my time.”
Harry scoffed, but there was a flicker of something lighter in his eyes. “Yeah, sure you do, Malfoy. Let’s just get this over with.”
Draco raised an eyebrow “What?”
Harry looked at him like he was the dumbest creature on planet, absolutely untrue.
“Try not to turn your potion into a sludge while I fetch the ingredients, Potter.”
“Our,” Harry said and Draco raised an eyebrow. “It’s our potion Malfoy.” Draco gave an odd smirk for heaven knows why and went to pick the ingredients turning on his heel, far too graceful for Harry’s liking. “Right, Our… Potion.” Harry watched him go, biting back a grin as he returned to stirring the cauldron, feeling the weight of normalcy settle around him—a strange, but welcome, new kind of normal.
“Well,” Ron said, giving Harry a pointed look. “That was… something.”
Harry didn’t turn to him as he shrugged, hiding a small smile. “What? Just Malfoy being Malfoy.”
Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress her grin. “Right, Harry. Just Malfoy being Malfoy.” Harry didn’t turn off course but he just knew what both of their expressions were.
They were the one who helped during his sexuality crisis after all.